Don't let others define you
by jnicweb
Summary: Merlin is full of contradictions and most of the time Arthur doesn't understand anything.


**Fic about Merlin from Arthur's point of view about Merlin being very contradictory. No Merthur as usual.**

Quick wit and slow pace. That's why he's always late in the mornings. But the way he comes up with insults is commendable. Especially when he makes up words on the spot, seemingly without thinking about it.

Strong arms and weak hands. An armful of heavy armor can't be easy to carry. But somehow he does it…most of the time without complaining. But any time you ask him to grab a vial of some important potion that will prevent death, he spills it. Saying it fell out of his hands. Likely story.

Beaten down, hunched back and straightened shoulders. The reason he has back problems is his refusal to stand up straight. He says that height draws attention and respect. But since he is taller than me, he says he detracts from the attention I should get. So he shrinks his height. But when his secret is revealed, his shoulders somehow remember how it feels to be straight, and he stands taller than he ever did as a servant. And I'm okay with being the shorter one. Because he definitely deserves all the respect that comes with his ridiculous tallness.

Mouth says I'm an open book, but eyes say you will never know me. And that hurts. More than I thought was possible.

Quiet whispers and loud ramblings. When it matters, he will whisper soft, soothing words that penetrate your consciousness until the only thing is the muttered words that let you know it will be okay. But when he gets nervous, there isn't a force on earth that can shut him up. He babbles about everything, from his dream last night, to the gossip he heard in the lower towns, to the different ways you can kill a man with only a fork. Which should be worrisome, but it's not. And I don't dwell on that fact a lot. But if I am semi-cautious around him with forks, no one can blame me.

Bleeding heart and closed feelings. He seems to love everyone he comes across. His heart literally bleeds love. But somehow no one really knows anything about him. And he refuses to let anyone in to the deepest part of him.

Wide grin and small eyes. The way his cheeks seem to reach up to his eyes is evidence of the biggest, goofiest, joy-filled smile I have ever seen.

Slender fingers and broad shoulders. The way his fingers dance over the keys of a piano, drawing out melodies, easing out quivering notes that seem to portray his every emotion makes me want to swing my hips and tap my foot. The combination of those slim fingers flitting on the keys and the swaying of his shoulders with his eyes closed is enough to drive anyone to dance. But I will never admit it. Ever.

Tall legs and short temper. But only when you insult his friends. Then there will be hell to pay.

Hot forehead and cool hands. You know what they say, cold hands mean a warm heart. In that case, his heart must be the equivalent of boiling lava, because his hands feel like they just spent an hour in the Arctic.

Gasping breaths and calm words. He can't seem to catch his breath. But even dying in my arms he has wise and soft words that try to convince me I will be okay without him. He's fighting a losing battle and he knows it. I will not be okay without him. He means too much to me. I attempt to give him comforting words, like he has always done for me. But my shaking voice and wet eyes aren't very confidence-boosting. He smirks his signature smirk at me, and it's so like him, so like him to smile as he dies, that I'm caught unprepared, and an accidental sob escapes from my mouth. After that one, I can't seem to keep my tears inside, and they come rushing out, along with grief-riddled screams that I don't realize are coming from me. The forest echoes with my broken shrieks that are filled with lost hope and fallen friends and a shattered heart. Watching the light go out of his eyes is definitely the hardest thing I have ever done. And the most heartbreaking.

Noiseless creeping and deafening trampling. These seem to be his only settings. When he is the one creeping, or stalking, no one hears him. But when he is being forced to creep, like say, on a hunt, there isn't anything within a two mile radius that can't hear them clomping through the forest. I don't understand how he can just switch between the two, but there isn't anything in between the creepy stalker and the elephant I have grown to love like a brother.

Sharp comebacks and dull eyes. What happened to the lively eyes that drew you in like a moth to flame? Where did they go? And why are they duller than a butter knife now?

Flitting hands and hard shoves. Bruises and wounds seem to bring out the soft side in him. His hands will ghost over the affected area of skin, afraid to touch, afraid of the hiss of pain that will accompany anything harder than a whisper of skin on skin. Shoves on the other hand, are delivered by a bony shoulder and/or elbow that will definitely leave a bruise.

Innocent eyes and guilty mouth. Contradicting each other, but somehow it seems to work. The little smirk playing around his lips is always a dead giveaway.

Wandering eyes and hard stares. Concentration doesn't seem to come easily to him. His eyes won't focus on anything, but will instead look at everything and nothing. He has a love/hate relationship with standing still as well. But when it counts, when he wants his point understood, nothing will draw his gaze away from your face. I don't quite know if this is a bad thing or a good thing.

Unseeing eyes and unmoving limbs. He is still, like death. But the small movement of his chest says otherwise. He has retreated into himself, and nothing can bring him back to reality. Not even me.

Big hands and tiny lift of his mouth. It's amazing how fast that face-splitting grin can turn into a mischievous smirk that lets you know exactly how much he isn't telling you.

Watery eyes and "I'm fine"s. Even when his are streaming with tears, his shoulders are shaking with repressed sobs, and his hands are trembling like he has the entire world resting on his back, he will insist he is fine. He knows it's a lie, I know it's a lie, but I still let him compose himself before wrapping my arms around him, letting him know it's okay to cry. But I still hate myself for being the one who told him no man is worth his tears.

* * *

Merlin is an enigma wrapped up in contradictions and tied with a contrary bow. Everything about this infuriatingly confusing man clashes, and nothing seems to make any sense when he opens his mouth. His entire being is riddled with puzzles and missing explanations that make me want to scream. I just want to understand one thing about him. But maybe that's part of his charm. He seems to draw people to him. His quirky smile and happy nature don't fit together with his mysterious aura and maybe that's what makes him so likeable. Maybe people just want to be the one who figures out this person, to be the one he finally opens up to. Lord knows I want that.

But the thing that makes Merlin, Merlin, are not his big hands, or quick comebacks, or even his silly grin. All those things make up Merlin, but they don't describe him. Those are just weak attempts to convince people they know who he is underneath all the seemingly odds and ends of his personality. No one really knows who he is under all his contradicting characteristics.

But I know who he is to me.

A brother.

And really, that's all that matters when Merlin is concerned.


End file.
